Deva Victrix: The Courtship
by moonlighten
Summary: A Brittonic courtship in ten steps. Sequel to Deva Victrix. (Multi-chapter, in progress; Fantasy AU; Scotland/France.)
1. Chapter 1

**Step One: Seeking Permission from Your Intended's Family**

-  
Basil tincture. Garlic oil. Salt water poultices. Baked onions. Each efficacious for the treatment of disorders of the ear, and each readily available in the apothecary's stores.

Dylan is tempted to get up from his seat at the kitchen table and use every single one of them on himself, all at once, because there must be something horribly wrong with his hearing.

As fleeing from his brother and making a desperate grab for curatives mere moments after his otherwise extremely welcome return home could so very easily be misconstrued, however, Dylan restrains his self-medication to a simple, brisk shake of his head in an attempt to rattle loose the ill-humours that must surely have settled there.

Though, if they have, they've obviously infected Michael too, as he blinks in bewilderment and asks Alasdair, "You're kidding, right?"

Alasdair blinks back at him slowly. "Naw," he says in an equally ponderous tone. "Why in the hells would I joke about something like this?"

"Surely you can understand that it might seem a little farfetched to us?" Dylan says when Michael looks towards him beseechingly, begging him to step in and offer support to bolster his position. "Not even three days ago, you were still adamant that there was absolutely no truth in the rumours going around about the two of you, but now you say you're..."

The word withers on the tip of his tongue, then dies trapped tight behind his teeth, as though his entire mouth has become inimical to its very existence. He can't even manage to spit it out on his second attempt, and all that emerges for his efforts is a inchoate hiccough of breath.

Alasdair appears to have no such difficulties. "Courting," he says without either inflection or hesitation, like its just any other word with no special meaning or implications at all.

" _You_ are courting a _prince_ ," Michael says, emphasising both pronoun and title so heavily that they sound almost scornful.

"Francis," Alasdair corrects him gently. "Francis and I are courting, and—"

Michael scrambles to his feet with such violent abruptness that he nearly upsets the table as well as his chair, and he shoots Alasdair a wounded glare before stomping away up the stairs. A few seconds later, the door to his room slams shut; the impact reverberating down through the floorboards and setting the lamp hanging from the centre of the kitchen ceiling to swaying back and forth on its anchoring chain.

Alasdair sighs. "I promised him he wouldn't have to worry about this kind of thing with me," he says, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Wait here a minute, will you, Dyl? I'd best go and try and sort this out with him now before he has chance to worry himself half to death about it all over again."  
-

* * *

-  
Alasdair takes rather more than a minute to pacify Michael, though nowhere near as long as Dylan had been anticipating. As it is, he manages to time his return perfectly with the kettle coming to the boil, and he hovers at Dylan's shoulder as he prepares a second mug; a silent sentinel, ever vigilant for evidence he is being short-changed on the honey.

They stand side by side together afterwards, leaning up against the counter as they wait for the tea to cool enough to drink. The top of Alasdair's arm is pressed close and warm against Dylan's shoulder, but the contact is not as comforting as it usually is as there's a tension in his muscles there that bespeaks a certain measure of unease.

"Mikey's all right," Alasdair says eventually, his fingers picking out a syncopated beat as they drum against the side of his mug. "He seems to have started getting used to the idea already. He says he's going to move into palace if me and Francis do get married. He wants the biggest bedchamber going, a feather bed, and a pony, apparently."

He chuckles, but Dylan can't join in with him. The whole situation feels too unreal, and he fears his own laughter may end up being slightly hysterical as a consequence.

" _If_ you get married?" he asks, clutching at that one little word like a lifeline, because it seems to hint at an old normality that everything else Alasdair has said thus far has lacked.

"It's not exactly a foregone conclusion like it is with you and the bard." Alasdair shrugs. "Hells, the whole thing might not even last to the end of this week, for all I know."

Dylan takes a sip of his tea to try and disguise the fact that he needs a moment to gather his thoughts. It's still too hot, and the blend is a mite too heavy on the ginger for his liking. It scalds the roof on his mouth and leaves an unpleasant, tingling aftertaste on his lips, and he swipes his tongue across them compulsively to rid himself of the sensation.

Alasdair clearly misreads the gesture as an unwillingness to voice his opinion, as he implores him to, "Just say whatever it is you want to say. Please, Dyl. I want know if you're all right, too."

Permission thus granted, Dylan finds himself blurting, "Why on earth are you doing this, Aly? You've never been interested in getting married before."

This outburst appears to surprise Alasdair fully as much as Dylan himself, judging by the swift upward arc of his eyebrows.

"When have I ever said that?" he asks, his voice thinning to a knife-edge sharpness.

"You," Dylan begins, but his confidence fails him before he can even form his next word. He had, he realises, _assumed_ that was the case, given his brother's indifference when it comes to amorous entanglements otherwise. "You want to get married?" he finishes, a little uncertainly.

Alasdair gives a small, brisk nod of his head. "Always have done," he says gruffly. "I never thought it'd happen, though, because... Well, I'm sure you'd already worked out for yourself that there are certain _aspects_ of marriage that have never appealed."

It is, indeed, something else Dylan has always assumed. He's never once expected to have it confirmed outright, however, and the admittance throws him completely off-guard. Alasdair has always been so evasive about the subject in the past that Dylan had stopped asking him even oblique questions about it when they were both still in their adolescence, thinking that it was something that his brother found either too painful or too embarrassing to discuss.

It's become such a taboo, in fact, that Dylan can barely summon sufficient courage and force of will to ask, "But... But they do now?"

He quickly raises his mug to his mouth again, even though he has no intention of taking another drink. It simply provides a convenient shield to hide his own blush behind whilst he watches Alasdair's own colour heighten out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm... I'm honestly not sure," his brother finally admits. "But that's why we're courting. That's what it's supposed to be for, isn't it? A year to see if you're both compatible? Francis is... He wanted us to give it a go, see where it leads us."

Which would all be very commendable – he would even call it sweet if the term didn't seem too undignified to apply to the deeds of royalty – but Dylan can't help but think that the prince's idea of what this 'courtship' might entail is probably out of step with Alasdair's, who can be more than a little naive about such matters.

"He _is_ aware that courtship is supposed to be a prelude to marriage if it works out, isn't he?" he asks gently.

He can scarcely believe Alasdair's answering, "Aye," even though it is very firmly and promptly stated.

"And he's allowed to do that? Marry a..."

Dylan can't quite think of a polite way of putting it, flustered as he is, but Alasdair helpfully provides, "A commoner? Governor's are as good as kings here, Dyl; he can do whatever the fuck he likes in his private life. He doesn't have to answer to anyone about that.

"His da doesn't give a shit what he does anymore outside his work, so he's hardly likely to object anyway, and his ma..." His cheeks grow a fraction ruddier. "Well, he says his ma would probably take a shine to me. Once she's wrapped her head around me not being a duke or the like, in any case."

"Oh," Dylan says, nonplussed.

His brother, who hasn't ever shown the slightest inclination towards the romantic, might someday marry a prince. It seems so fanciful, so improbable, that he doesn't know what to think, or say, or do. He stares down into the depths of his mug, but, unsurprisingly, they have no insight to give.

Alasdair must take his take his lack of reaction as indicative of some inner turmoil deeper than straightforward shock, as he briefly wraps Dylan in one of his constrictive, rib-bruising hugs. "It might well come to nothing," he says, dipping his head down low to press his bristly cheek against Dylan's ear. "There's no guarantee you're going to be rid of me, you ken?"

That thought had yet to cross Dylan's mind, but as he suspects Alasdair might find that truth somewhat insulting, he chooses to keep quiet about the matter.

Alasdair gives him one final squeeze, then takes a step back and hurriedly gulps down his tea. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to love you and leave you for the time being," he says as he rinses his mug half-heartedly in the sink. "I've got a meeting scheduled with Lu at nine, to debrief her again about everything that happened at the palace, and sort out my patrols and so on. I shouldn't be more than an hour or two. We'll talk more when I get back, okay?"

"Okay," Dylan echoes dully, hoping against hope that it'll give him enough time to digest everything his brother has just told him to such an extent that he can at least pretend to be happy about it.  
-

* * *

-  
Despite the morning's upsets and revelations – and with the aid of a second cup of tea and a furtive and slightly conscience-stricken pipeful of tobacco – Dylan manages to regather sufficient of his wits in short enough order that he feels equal to opening the shop only twenty minutes later than usual.

The sky is darkened with a bank of clouds the colour of unpolished granite which hang so low above the rooftops that they almost seem to be within arm's reach. What little sunlight has trickled through their enveloping shroud is weak and wavering, and lends the street outside the dusky hues of twilight.

Dylan sighs dejectedly when the first, fat drops of rain begin to rattle against the windowpane. He very seldom gets passing trade as it is, but a downpour of the magnitude that the thunder rolling overhead loudly promises will ensure that none but the most desperate are likely to venture outside.

There seems little point in rousting Michael from his bed once more simply so that he can join him in finding ways to idle away the hours until five o'clock, so Dylan resigns himself to spending yet another tedious day bored and alone.

He takes out the shop's ledger for the third time that week, and spends a pointless half hour checking that the miniscule amounts of money entered therein balance, and that his taxes have been properly calculated, just as he did yesterday.

Later, as he's unsteadily perched atop a rickety stepladder, making an inventory of the bottles and jars arrayed on a shelf he knows full well hasn't been touched for a month at least, he wonders again why in the hells he persists in engaging in the ridiculous charade that is his working life.

The apothecary's trade in its essentials is one that he is both good at and takes great satisfaction in, but he has never had, and probably will never have, any aptitude for salesmanship. He has not the ruthless heart required to peddle useless sugar water to those whose ailments need only a bit of rest or fresh air to remedy, nor can he master the sort of patter which persuades people to part with far more coin than a physic is worth, no matter how diligently he has practiced over the years.

He would be much happier and more productive, he thinks, if he could work solely in his laboratory, and avoid the mercantile aspect entirely. If he shut up the shop, Michael would doubtless thank him, too, as he has never had any interest in becoming an apothecary, never mind a shopkeeper. Dylan would have gladly spared his little brother, had he ever been in the position that he could afford to take on an apprentice in the usual way, but such a thing remains a pipe dream, and thus they are unhappily yoked to suffer together.

Because giving up on ma's shop feels far too close to spitting in the face of her memory for Dylan's liking. It has been in her family for four generations now, and no doubt she had wanted it to continue thus for at least four generations to come, as well. Both of her sisters live outside Deva with no intentions of returning – married to farmers; their children destined to become farmers, too – so the weight of that responsibility had fallen entirely on Dylan's shoulders. And as he had never dared to assume that he might one day have children of his own, he had reluctantly sacrificed Michael on the altar of tradition as soon he turned fourteen.

Just for the moment, however, Dylan allows himself the guilty pleasure of imagining what life might be like if they were all free to pursue their own hearts. Perhaps Llewellyn would allow him to set up a small laboratory in the Bard's Hall, in order that he might make up any medicines that Gabriella ordered – and maybe, the prince, too, if he had no apothecary of his own on staff – but avoid dealing with any customers besides. And perhaps Michael could move to the palace as he'd discussed with Alasdair, and learn to be a clerk, or librarian, or—

The muted clunk of the bell above the shop door comes as such a shock that Dylan loses his balance and nearly topples arse over tit from his precarious perch. Only a frantic, last minute grab for the edge of the nearest shelf as he feels his feet start to slip out from underneath him saves him from such an indignity. He leans his forehead against it for a moment, ragged fingernails clawed deep into the wood and panting like a frightened dog, and then peers apprehensively back over his shoulder.

The shop floor seems an extremely long way away, and at the centre of it stands the prince, staring up at him with naked concern in his eyes.

"My apologies, Mr Kirkland," he says, his voice softened so much in his contrition that Dylan barely recognises it. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right," Dylan says as he hurriedly descends the ladder. "I'm fine. No harm done."

Back on solid ground once more, and without the threat of a sudden plunge into broken limbs or cracked skull looming large at the front of his mind, Dylan becomes uncomfortably aware that his stock-taking endeavours have left him in a deplorably dishevelled state. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking loose the worst of the dust, cobwebs, and knots that have settled there, and tugs his ridden-up shirttails back down to cover the exposed lower curve of his belly.

Recomposed to the best of his meagre abilities, he offers the prince a bow. "Your Highness."

The prince looks horrified to see it, and he shakes his head vigorously. "Please, call me Francis."

He darts forward, and before Dylan has chance to protest or even register what he intends to do, takes hold of Dylan's right hand in a firm clasp with his left.

The prince's fingertips are icy cold, his palm clammy, and Dylan belatedly realises that the man as a whole is practically wringing wet. Water is dripping from not only the end of hair turned to corkscrew ringlets by the rain, but every sharp point of him, from the tip of his nose, to the darted sleeves of his overcoat. His boots are splattered with mud all the way up to his knees.

"You didn't walk here, did you?" Dylan asks, aghast and wondering what in the many hells would possess a person with at least three carriages at their disposal to even contemplate doing such a thing.

"I did." The prince smiles ruefully and drops Dylan's hand after giving it what Dylan can only deduce is meant to be a last, reassuring press. "The weather showed no signs of turning when I set out from the palace. It's so deceptive here, though. After near seven months' acquaintance with it, I really should have learnt better than to let it lull me into a false sense of security."

"So you came all that way on your own?"

Even lacking his brother's guard instincts and presumably tender feelings for the man, Dylan is horrified by the idea all the same. Although one murderer has lately been removed from Deva's streets, there are likely many other unsavoury characters lurking as yet undetected, and willing to risk the gallows for a chance at getting their hands on a noble's fat purse.

"Ah, no, Aly insisted on hand-picking a new personal guard for me from the palace staff before he left. He might not have the liberty of my chambers as Aly did in the same position, but he is tasked with following me everywhere else. He's sheltering from the storm a few doors down for the moment as I wanted to talk to you alone."

The request itself is intriguing enough, but the conspiratorial whisper the prince's voice drops into makes it doubly so. "Of course," Dylan says with slightly more alacrity than he thinks is probably seemly. "I'll just—"

The bell does its doleful best at pealing again as Alasdair stumbles in through the door, bringing with him a fresh deluge of rainwater to puddle across the once neatly-swept floorboards, and muttered complaints about how he's 'soaked all the way down to his drawers'.

The prince muffles his giggles at hearing that by pressing his clenched fist against his mouth, but they're still loud enough to attract Alasdair's attention.

His eyes widen, the colour drains from his face, and he barks out in an almost accusatory fashion, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The prince's hand drops to his chest, and then splays out over his heart. "Perhaps I had begun missing you already?" he says. He sounds earnest, but when Alasdair's jaw drops incredulously low, he laughs again as though his words had been intended as nothing more than a joke from the beginning. "Or perhaps I came to ask your brother's permission to start courting you?"

"You only need to do that if your intended hasn't come of age yet," Alasdair says, his eyebrows scrunching together in puzzlement. "I thought we went through that already?"

"Of course we did," the prince says, though the note of revelation in his tone is so forced that Dylan is convinced in an instant that his first explanation had been the correct one. "I'm afraid it must have slipped my mind in all the subsequent excitement." He hangs his head as if chagrined. "My apologies again, Mr Kirkland, for taking up your time for no purpose."

"It's all right, Your— Fr-Francis," Dylan stammers as he desperately tries to work out what his part in this particular bit of playacting should be. He thinks that Alasdair is just surprised by the prince's presence, not unhappy, but whilst that uncertainty remains, he cannot be sure of whether or not he should be offering the man any reasons to linger. "I'm sorry you made a wasted journey in conditions like these."

"Not wasted." The prince offers Dylan a soft smile. "Though this visit may have proved to be unnecessary, it was merely a detour. I was headed into Old Town on other business anyway, and thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone, as it were.

"And now I suppose I should be on my way again. I have a meeting scheduled for eleven o'clock with the head of the Butcher's Guild that I really cannot be late for, and I wanted to call in on the Bard's Hall and see how the restoration work is progressing beforehand."

He sets out towards the front door, but before he reaches it, Alasdair calls out a quelling, "Wait!"

The prince turns on his heel, and tilts his head up to look at Alasdair in a way that isn't direct enough to be expectant, though it does seem somewhat akin. Dylan is inclined to call it hopeful.

"What is it?" he says.

Alasdair extracts a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket that is, amazingly, somehow bone dry. "Here, I jotted down the times for this week's shifts like you asked me to," he says.

His expression immediately crumples into something that closely resembles anger when he presses the note into the prince's outstretched hand and their fingers briefly brush together.

"For fuck's sake, Francis," he snaps, "you're _freezing_. Can't you at least stay for long enough to have a cup of tea and warm up a bit? You'll likely catch your death of cold, otherwise."

The prince's answering smile is as sudden and bright as a burst of sunshine, and so broad that it makes his cheeks dimple. "I could probably spare a minute or two," he says. "That sounds lovely, Aly. Thank you."  
-

* * *

-  
The prince lowers himself onto the chair Alasdair has pulled up close to their hearth with the sort of low groan of mingled pain and pleasure that Dylan has heard escape the lips of rheumaticky old men as they settle themselves in the Antler's snug after a long day of aching joints and despairing at what the world's coming to.

He takes off his filthy boots, and then stretches his feet out towards the fire; toes wriggling in what looks to be contentment.

Alasdair regards their dance with evident amusement when he returns from his room, freshly clad in dry clothes and bearing the one towel they own that still retains enough of its fuzzy nap to be properly absorbent.

"Don't go getting _too_ comfortable," he says. "That poor guard of yours is out there getting drenched, and if you fall asleep and miss that meeting, the guilds will be calling for your head to be mounted on a spike all over again."

"Your concern for the integrity of my neck is, as ever, very touching, Aly," the prince says with a lop-sided smile that makes Alasdair first roll his eyes, and then ball up the towel and launch it towards him.

Dependent on his intentions, his aim is either perfect or embarrassingly woeful, as the towel sails within mere inches of clipping both the prince's ear and his shoulder, and instead lands neatly on his lap.

The prince clearly believes the former to be the truth of the matter, as he mumbles a few words of gratitude before unfurling the towel and scrubbing his head almost viciously with it. This ruthless attack leaves his hair floating up from his scalp in a fluffy cloud, but he quickly scrapes back it into a neat, orderly queue.

Afterwards, he picks up the mug of tea Dylan had set at his feet, cradling it close to his chest as he sinks even deeper into his seat.

Alasdair studies his face for a moment, maybe searching for signs of oncoming drowsiness, and then, with a sharp nod that seems to signal satisfaction, retreats to the table with a periodical Dylan knows he has already read from cover to cover at least once before.

The silence lengthens, deepens, and then feels to bear down on them with all the suffocating weight of a pall. At least, it does to Dylan, and he starts to believe that he really _is_ intruding, even though both Alasdair and the prince had reassured him he wasn't. That his brother might prefer to sit wrapped up as close and warm and tight to the prince as Dylan would if he were in Alasdair's place and Llewellyn in the prince's.

He readies himself to get to his feet, an excuse he hasn't quite formulated lying half-baked on his lips, but the sound of the prince's voice freezes him in place before he can even part his arse from the seat.

"I see from your notes that you're free on Saturday night, Aly. Would you care to join me and my family for dinner?"

Alasdair chuckles mirthlessly. "Gods above, I can't imagine that being anything other than a shit show," he says. "Have you broken the 'good news' to them yet?"

"I have. There was as much gnashing of teeth and rending of garments as you might expect from certain quarters, but plenty of congratulations, too. Three days should be sufficient for Lovino to reconcile himself to the idea, but even if that proves not to be the case, I'll find some way of persuading him to restrain his vitriol for a couple of hours."

Although Alasdair worries at his bottom lip with his teeth for a while, his eventual nod is decisive. "Aye, go on, then," he says. "And what will you be expecting me to wear for this grand, and no doubt excruciating, occasion?"

"I'll have something sent to you." The prince must already have developed some preternatural sense for when Alasdair is about to mount a protest, because he neither turns Alasdair's way, nor has Alasdair finished opening his mouth, when he adds, "It won't be a kilt, or a frock coat. I think our meals at the palace could stand to be a little less formal now and again."

Alasdair subsides, the slackening curve of his back radiating relief.

"Dylan," the prince says as he inclines his head towards him, "you and Mas— Michael are of course very welcome to attend as well, if you so wish."

Dylan can imagine little worse than being introduced to the prince's royal relations when the consternation caused by his courtship is still so fresh in their minds. Besides, he will need at least a month or two to do his research on how to address them, what protocol he should follow at mealtimes, and what topics of conversation are liable to be the most pleasing, in order that he doesn't make a _complete_ fool of himself.

"I'm afraid I will have to decline," he says, trying his hardest to ape Da's beautiful, cultured way of speaking as he delivers the words he had been taught were the politest way to refuse such invitations. "Perhaps another time?"

"I'll look forward to it," the prince says with a surprisingly genuine-seeming smile.  
-

* * *

-  
The Bard's Hall will clearly have to wait until after the prince's meeting, as it's closing in on twenty to eleven when he finally starts to make a move towards taking his leave of the apothecary.

He buffs his boots with a borrowed cloth that is – to Dylan's shame – not much cleaner than the leather itself, and then puts on both them and his still-damp overcoat, his nose wrinkling in obvious distaste.

Once he has buttoned it all the way up to its high collar, Alasdair walks him – in accordance with yet another of their da's lessons in etiquette – to the kitchen door. They stand there, facing each at a distance of less than a foot, for a handful of seconds that seem to stretch out into something approaching an hour to Dylan.

And something closer to days for his brother, he suspects, given the hunted cast that descends across his eyes, and the compulsive twitch of his hands where they rest, uneasy, against the tops of his thighs.

The prince's own gaze has taken on that same, indefinable quality that Dylan had noticed in the shop earlier, but it's soon dispersed by a sudden rush of delighted laughter.

" _À bientôt, mon cher_ ," he says, in a low, purring tone that feels to curl up deep and inside both Dylan's head and stomach, never mind his brother's.

Alasdair's body sways slightly closer to the prince, which would suggest he isn't completely unaffected, even though his expression doesn't brighten one iota until the prince closes the small gap that still remains between them and presses the lightest and swiftest of all possible kisses to his cheek.

His brother's entire face looks to catch fire, then, turning a scalding-looking shade of red, and his hands move seemingly of their own volition to catch hold of the prince's shoulders.

He doesn't return the kiss, however; simply pulls the prince into a hug that appears just as tight as any he's ever inflicted on Dylan, albeit significantly shorter in duration.

"Go on," he says in a growling-rough rasp, as he steps back from the embrace, his eyes fixed very determinedly on his feet. "You'd best get a move on. And try to keep out of the rain if you can."


	2. Chapter 2

**Step 2: The Exchanging of Rings**

-  
"Well?" Alasdair asks as he steps a ponderous circle in the narrow slice of space between his bed and wardrobe. "Be honest with me. Exactly how stupid do I look?"

The outfit the prince had commissioned from his tailor is a rich man's idea of casual attire: a snowy white shirt with billowing sleeves shaped more for effect than practicality; a waistcoat that looks on first glance to be a plain, serviceable bottle green, but on closer inspection proves to be embellished with profuse embroidered foliage around the buttonholes and hem; and smart brown breeches tucked into long leather boots of a similar hue which have heels far higher than any Dylan has ever seen his brother wear before.

Nevertheless, each piece has been carefully cut to emphasise those aspects of Alasdair's frame that are already most striking, and their colouring complements his own. The only unflattering thing about the entire ensemble is the morose expression Alasdair has donned along with it.

That, and the cravat, which appears to be tight enough to serve as a garrotte behind, and resembles nothing better than a heavily used handkerchief in front.

"You look fine," Dylan tells him. "Except... I don't think you've tied the cravat quite right."

"I'm not bloody surprised. I haven't the faintest fucking idea how it's supposed to be done." Alasdair's frown deepens, and he plucks irritably at the crumpled spill of fabric at his throat. "Maybe it would be best if I just took it off and didn't bother with it at all."

"No, don't," Dylan says quickly. The addition of the neckpiece in Miss Labelle's package, was, he's certain, indicative of the level of formality that will be expected at the so-called 'relaxed' meal the prince has invited Alasdair to attend with his family. To do without would likely put his brother at a disadvantage, and leave him open to accusations of being underdressed for the occasion. "I'm sure we'll be able to find something in one of Da's books that'll help us fix it."

Whilst Dylan does eventually manage to unearth a slim and dog-eared tome of etiquette from their father's collection that offers a step-by-step pictorial guide to the tying of cravats, the process is still laborious and frustrating, and results in Alasdair nursing more than one neck wound caused by an ill-judged placement of the tie pin he had been provided with.

"I think that's as good as we're going to be able to get," Alasdair says, easing Dylan's hands aside as he reaches up to try, for the fourth time, to rearrange the position of that pin so that it doesn't immediately get swallowed up by the cravat's folds and its gold- and diamond-tipped head is thus put on proper display. "I'm late enough as it is. If I don't hurry and catch Francis' coachman at the end of the street, he'll probably drive the barouche right up to our sodding front door again."

"He's sending a carriage for you?" Dylan asks, surprised. He wouldn't have thought his brother would have countenanced such a thing, nor, given the regularity and vociferousness with which he has shared his opinion on the subject, that the prince would consider it a kindness.

"Aye. I doubt I'd be able to walk too far in these _things_ ," Alasdair says, gesturing with evident disgust towards his boots. "I don't know what he was... Surely he doesn't think _I'm_ too short, too?"

He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and after one last, smoothing pass of his hands down his waistcoat, picks up his new overcoat and takes a step towards the door.

His second is hesitant, his third aborted and his forward momentum redirected into a swift about turn to face Dylan once more.

"I should be back around midnight, all being well. Apparently, we're going to be playing cards after dinner," he says, in the tone of someone who has fallen into the clutches of their sworn enemy and is now finds themselves peering down the barrel of a gun.

"Oh, I'd presumed you'd be staying the night at the palace, in your old quarters."

"My 'old quarters' are in Francis' chambers, which was all well and good when I was his guard, but now we're courting..." Alasdair's arched eyebrows and acutely curled top lip suggest that his sense of propriety has been offended by the very suggestion. "It'd give entirely the wrong impression. It's a bit early days for... for _that_ sort of thing, don't you think?"

There is a hint of a plea to his voice, as though he's imploring Dylan to reassure him that his actions could be seen as proper in addition to suiting his inclinations.

Traditionally, couples are encouraged not to start exploring whether or not they are compatible inside the bedroom as well as outside it until the eighth month of their courtship at the very earliest. Despite his determination to cleave to the institution's conventions otherwise, Dylan is becoming increasingly concerned that that particular one may prove too onerous to observe himself.

His brother, conversely, could well wish it postponed until betrothal or even marriage, as would be expected were they living in the prince's homeland instead.

"Of course," he says soothingly. "You're quite right."

Alasdair's answering smile is bright but fleeting. "Okay," he says, drawing himself up tall like a man preparing to do battle. "I'll be off, then. Wish me luck; I imagine I'll need as much of it as I can get."  
-

* * *

-  
Even at eight o'clock in the evening, the Bard's Hall is as busy as an anthill.

Stonemasons and builders scurry along the scaffolding that rings its crumbling walls, joiners and carpenters stand in ankle-deep drifts of sawdust on the now deeply wheel-rutted lawn as they saw planks and carve balusters, and a seemingly endless procession of wagons trundles along the narrow pathway that leads up to the old building.

Together they make such a cacophony that Llewellyn doesn't answer Dylan's knocking at his door for a good five minutes, and only then after Dylan has thrown his manners aside and added a few kicks to the wood for good measure.

His skin tinged a sickly shade of grey; his eyes glazed and dull. He looks exhausted.

"Sorry," he says. "It's difficult to hear anything inside over all this din."

As Michael had made the most uncharacteristic decision to go and visit one of his friends after dinner, Dylan had been left with nothing but his thoughts for company, and in that solitude, there had been nothing to check them from becoming ever more anxious and obsessive. When he found himself contemplating for at least the tenth time in the course of an hour what exactly Alasdair might be doing at that precise moment and thereafter all the many and varied ways the subsequently imagined occupation might go wrong, it was clear that he wouldn't get a minute's peace if he remained at the apothecary.

He had hoped that Llewellyn might invite him inside for tea and conversation, solely to enable him to escape the confines of his own head for a spell, but that desire now seems fully as selfish as it does impossible.

"How would you like to get away from it all for a while?" he asks. "Perhaps we could go for a walk?"

"That would be lovely," Llewellyn says, sounding so grateful that Dylan's feelings of guilt intensify in consequence. "Though it will have to be a short one, I'm afraid. The last time I was away from the Hall for more than a couple of hours, I came back and found that half of my furniture had been thrown out onto the street! His Highness seems determined that I will have featherbeds and... and solid gold chairs, no matter how much I might object!"

They talk very little as they make a slow, meandering circuit around Old Town's walls, as Llewellyn appears to relish the chance to be quiet. His presence – the warmth of his hand in Dylan's – is absorbing enough, however, that it's almost impossible for Dylan to think of anything but him.  
-

* * *

-  
This lightness of mind is doomed to be fleeting, as Dylan's return to the apothecary is followed not ten minutes later by Alasdair, who bursts in through the back door like the very hounds and wolves of the hells are at his heels.

He crosses the kitchen in three long, heavy strides, ripping the cravat from around his neck and casting it to the floor as he goes, and then begins rifling through the cupboard at the base of their dresser.

"Aly," Dylan says hesitantly, "are you—"

"It was crap, Dyl," Alasdair snarls. "I'll tell you exactly how crap it was later, but right now, I need a drink."

"I... I don't think we have anything. You finished off the whisky a couple of weeks ago, remember? And we threw the last of the strawberry and blackcurrant wine out into the yard. I don't think my verbena will ever recover."

Alasdair's back sags, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against the side of the dresser. "Right," he says with what sounds to be extreme reluctance. "It'll have to be the Antler then, I guess."

In the days following his departure from the prince's service, Alasdair has scarcely spent more than a handful of minutes out of doors, save for his patrols. He has claimed to be too busy to spare time for anything save for his recent woodworking project, but Dylan has suspected throughout that some of the blame for this reclusion can be placed at their neighbours' doors.

Many of them have family who work at the palace, and the prince has apparently made no secret of his courtship. That particular morsel of gossip reached Old Town not long after Alasdair himself did, and has been chewed over at the Antler ever since.

"Are you sure?" Dylan asks. "You're still the favourite topic of conversation there, I'm sorry to say."

Alasdair nods decisively. "It's better than being sober," he says.  
-

* * *

-  
"You'll be wanting wine, I suppose," Richard says with a smirk when Alasdair approaches the bar.

Alasdair shakes his head vigorously. "I've had more than my fill of wine for today, Dick. I'll have a pint of your finest horse piss, thank you."

He downs that first glass before Richard has even finished counting out his change, and then slides the coins back to him in exchange for two more, which he and Dylan take to the secluded table that Angus usually occupies when he is not – Alasdair explains as they walk – taking on double shifts for reasons that he is as yet disinclined to share even with his partner.

"Before you ask," Alasdair says as they settle themselves down in their seats, "Francis and I haven't fallen out or anything, so you can stop worrying about that for a start."

Truthfully, Dylan hadn't had chance to so much as wonder what might have caused Alasdair's black mood, given they'd practically sprinted all the way from the apothecary, but he thanks his brother, regardless, then asks, "What _did_ happen, Aly?"

"Prince Lovino decided he should let me know that he believes Francis would do better courting a fucking horse than me," Alasdair says, scowling. "Not that he said anything outright – Francis wouldn't have stood for that – but he kept making all these sly little remarks about 'good breeding' and 'royal blood', and rolling his bloody eyes every time I picked up the wrong fork or passed the serving dish to the wrong side.

"The first moment he managed to catch me on my own he flat out told me that he thinks I'm just after Francis for his money, and that, if he is foolish enough to ever marry me, it'd be a 'irrevocable blemish on the proud Bonnefoy name', and I..." His colour rises. "And I told him that my great-grandfather was the cousin of the last king of Northern Britannia, so maybe Francis wasn't noble enough to be marrying _me_ , given that there were nothing but wine merchants, sailors and mercenaries in the Vargas family tree not more than four centuries back."

He laughs quietly at himself, then takes a deep gulp of his beer before continuing with: "Gods above, I never imagined I'd be desperate enough to play a card that fucking ridiculous. Anyway, that gave him pause for all of about five seconds before he started in on critiquing the way I was holding my brandy glass or some such nonsense. Supercilious arse. By that point, it was plain that I was either going to have to leave or one of us would end up pulling their sword on the other. After I told him that, even Francis agreed that it was best that I go, so..." He shrugs. "Here I am."

"Do you think he'll make trouble between you and Francis?" Dylan asks.

"I reckon he'll try," Alasdair says. "I doubt Francis will pay him much heed, though. He did ask if I wanted him to send his cousins packing off back to Roma, but I know he likes having them there, so I guess I'll just have to learn to ignore Lovino. Plenty of people have in-laws they can't stand, and yet they still manage to avoid duelling to the death well enough, right?"

"They do," Dylan concedes. "But most of them don't have in-laws that could have them executed for treason if the fancy ever struck them, either."

Alasdair chuckles. "Well, I suppose that _is_ one of the downsides to courting a prince."

"So it's true, then?" a voice rings out from behind them, startling Dylan, but not, it seems, his brother, who simply takes another sip of his pint. "You _are_ courting the governor?"

To Dylan's astonishment, he discovers when he turns around in his seat that they have drawn a small crowd, three or four deep.

"Aye," Alasdair says placidly.

"And he knows that courtship isn't just a fancy word for a quick roll in the hay with the help?" asks Samuel Cooper, one of the Antler's hostlers; a sinewy little man with skin the texture of a badly aged walnut.

"He does." Though Alasdair's voice is still perfectly level, the muscle which has begun to twitch beneath his left eye suggests that he's uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

Dylan gives his brother's forearm a comforting squeeze, and then says, "I don't—"

" _If_ he does," Cooper barrels implacably on, "how come he's not given you a ring? It's been close on a week since it was all decided, or so _I've_ heard."

Alasdair's right eye starts twitching, too, but his hands are remarkably steady as he reaches up to unfasten the button at his collar. "He has, but I could hardly wear it on my finger in my line of work, could I? It'd get smashed to pieces before the week was out," he says, pulling a thin silver chain out from under his shirt. "I'll have to wear it round my neck. See?"

Cooper squints at it for no more than a second or two before he sneers and says, "Don't look like much. I would have thought he'd have sprung for gold, at the very least, if he's as _dedicated_ as you seem to want us to believe."

"I thought gold was only for engagement and wedding rings." Alasdair's brow furrows in an exaggerated fashion that Dylan recognises as merely a sham of confusion. "He wanted to buy me one anyway, but I told him that wood was traditional for courtship. I guess I was wrong."

He knows very well that he isn't, as does Cooper, judging by the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. He opens his mouth as if to make a rebuttal even so, but eventually snaps it shut and slinks back to the safety of the crowd once more.

Catherine Phillips soon steps forward to take his place, though her interest seems strictly professional, her carpenter's eye fixed on the ring itself with only a speck of attention left to spare for the man wearing it. "Nice piece of work," she says approvingly. "Do you mind if I take a closer look, Aly?"

Alasdair quickly unclasps the necklace and passes it to her. "Knock yourself out."

Phillips crouches down beside their table, the ring cradled delicately in the palm of her hand, and Dylan takes the opportunity to look at it more closely himself as she studies it.

Alasdair had sweated and cursed for three full evenings in a row, paring down a small chunk of oak – not to mention several layers of his own skin – inch by meticulous inch until something that vaguely resembled a ring finally emerged from the wood. Having borne witness to the great care and attention that had been poured into its creation despite Alasdair's complete lack of aptitude at the task, Dylan had been loath to disparage his efforts in any way.

In his heart of hearts, though, he had acknowledged and accepted it was an ugly little thing, more oval than circular, and ragged around the edges despite the diligent and continued application of sandpaper.

And, Alasdair himself admitted, doubtless not fit to grace the hand of a prince, but he had been adamant that this was one custom of courtship that was not negotiable.

'Francis would buy me some great gaudy thing worth more than all the houses on Ashfield Street combined if he could,' he'd said. 'But what could I give him in return? It's better if we're both just stuck wearing bits of wood, if you ask me. He won't be able to contrive a way to spend more on it than he ought, then.'

The ring Francis has given Alasdair, however, is as beautiful as any 'bit of wood' could be, to Dylan's eye. It's a warm, creamy colour, perfectly round and polished to such a fine lustre that it shines almost as brightly as a jewel.

"And he carved this himself, did he?" Phillips asks, raising one eyebrow sceptically. "That's the traditional way, too, you know."

"He got some fancy Eastgate jeweller to give him some lessons first," Alasdair says. "But, aye, he did."

"It's not bad for an amateur. Not bad, at all." Phillips looks impressed. "And it's nice wood. Juniper, though not from one of our native trees. He must have had this ordered in specially from somewhere on the continent. Gallia, most likely. That must have cost him a pretty packet, too."

The smile that had been slowly building on Alasdair's lips collapses in an instant. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he growls, crossing his arms over his chest as he slumps down sullenly in his seat. "I should have known he'd find some way wriggle out of getting me something cheap for once."


	3. Chapter 3

**Step 3: Introducing the Two (or More) Families**

-  
By the time Aly's tenure as his guard came to an end, Francis had assumed him habituated to the persistent rumours that they were bedding together. He ignored all such implications and accusations for the most part, but even when he did acknowledge them, it was with nothing more than an exasperated roll of his eyes or even, on occasion, a joke of a far cruder nature than Francis had thought him capable of.

Agreeing to enter into courtship, however, had caused his prudery regarding the subject to not only re-emerge but redouble, swelling to almost monastic proportions.

Francis' own chambers, which were once not only a welcome sanctuary from prying eyes whilst they were conducting their investigations but Aly's temporary home besides, now seem to have become synonymous with the worst kind of depraved carnality in his mind, and he avoids them just as assiduously as any priest would the many fleshpots that proliferate Belowstreets.

Still, Francis can't help but try to persuade him towards them anew on every visit, not with the intention of bringing the man in closer proximity to his bed – as Aly appears to believe – but simply so that they might enjoy some measure of their old privacy. Lovino has begun dogging Francis' steps very closely of late, and has no compunctions about interrupting their meetings at the most inopportune moments.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to talk in my chambers?" Francis asks when he catches sight of his cousin pretending great interest in a rather dull portrait of their Great-Uncle Andrea nearby. "I received a particularly fine Burdigalan red from Maman yesterday, and it proved too tempting a prospect to consign down to the cellars. This may be your only chance to sample it, I'm afraid."

The leeriness with which Aly regards him suggests that he has parsed 'sharing wine' as 'dropping trou', and he very firmly answers, "No."

Francis sighs, and sets course for the northeast wing yet again. "The green drawing room it is, then."

Whilst its one permanent occupant is not fierce enough to repel any intruders entirely, his presence combined with the chilly, unfinished state of the wing as a whole acts as sufficient deterrent that they will likely be allowed at least an hour or two of peace there.

For his own part, Francis would consider that oil and canvas third party almost as unwelcome as a flesh and blood one had he not learnt the knack of navigating the room in such a way that he never has to so much as glance at his father's portrait.

Aly, on the other hand, makes a point of stopping for a while to scrutinise it with such intense focus that Francis doesn't doubt that he has now committed even the finest of details to memory and could, had he the knack for such things, replicate the painting so perfectly in its particulars that even the original artist would be hard-pressed to distinguish between the two.

Whilst the scowl he always wears throughout these inspections reveals an antipathy to the subject that pleases Francis, given how closely it mirrors his own feelings, he can't help but also feel his father would not consider Aly's behaviour disagreeable if he were to be made aware of it.

"He doesn't deserve all the attention you give him," he remarks when he notices Aly's gaze begin to drift towards the frame once more. "I find it's more gratifying to pretend that _thing_ isn't even there. My father is untroubled by hatred, but he has always disliked being ignored."

Aly gives him a quizzical look. "It's just a painting, Francis," he says. "The man himself won't know the difference, either way."

"I know that," Francis says hurriedly, his heart tripping over in his chest at the reminder that, despite his efforts towards dispassion, he has not quite been able to dispel the irrational, superstitious notion which had been birthed in the moment of the portrait's unsolicited arrival at the palace that it and his father are linked on a more intimate level than a mere shared likeness. "But by the same token, he's equally unaware of the glowering you regularly subject him to."

Aly shrugs. "I'd do the same to his face if he were actually here."

"And he would have you flogged for your insolence before you had chance to blink." Francis shudders involuntarily. "Ah, now I'm even gladder than ever that you'll likely never meet."

"I can't say that I'm losing much sleep over not making his acquaintance, either," Aly says, and then turns his back very deliberately on the painting. "Right, what was it you needed to speak to me about so urgently?"

Francis experiences a momentary pang of guilt for misleading Aly as to the relative importance of his visit, but it is as diminutive as it is transitory. Between Aly's long hours at work, his new-found discomfort regarding the palace's accommodations, and his reluctance to entertain Francis in his own home, they scarcely spend any more time together than when they first met. And, just as he did then, Francis has had to resort to inventing ever more desperate excuses to spend time with the man.

Less than a month ago, they parted from each other's sides only to sleep, and their subsequent separation has been so abrupt and all-encompassing that it sometimes feels almost akin to a bereavement to Francis.

It does not appear to have been quite such a wrench to Aly, who bears it with a fortitude that Francis occasionally fears borders on apathy. His sole consolation is the belief that Aly would not suffer in silence; that he would have no scruples in making it known in no uncertain terms if he were already regretting or growing tired of their arrangement.

"Our upcoming dinner engagement, of course," Francis says, gesturing for Aly to take up his usual place on the shorter of the two sofas set beneath the room's high, arching windows. "There's still so much for us to prepare."

"Like what? Won't your servants be taking care of everything?"

"I have not decided on the menu, for a start." Francis takes a seat on the second sofa and withdraws from the inside pocket of his frockcoat the sheaf of paper on which he has been making his notes. "I know you said before that it didn't much matter, but surely your family must have _some_ preferences when it comes to food?"

"They'll be happy enough if none of it's burnt," Aly says. "We're hardly what you'd call gastronomists."

"And what about drinks? I assume wine would not be welcomed, but would ale or cider be the better choice in its place?"

"As long as there's a ready supply of it, you won't be getting any complaints. Though I have to warn you we'll likely be carrying Art out of here by the end of the evening, come what may. He doesn't handle alcohol half so well as he thinks he does."

"All right," Francis says, disconsolately writing a question mark against the first two items on the list he had drawn up in an effort to quiet the restless thoughts that had kept him from sleep the previous night. "Now, I had a few concerns about the seating plan..."

Aly furrows his brow over the sheet of paper Francis hands him as though it's a complex and indecipherable code rather than a simple diagram. "Why in the hells do we need _this_?" he asks after failing to elucidate its meaning to his satisfaction.

"As the point of this exercise is to introduce our families to one another, I thought it would be best to alternate seating between the two sides," Francis explains. "Though, as you can see from all the crossings out, Lovino's placement proved something of a conundrum."

"Well, Dyl's probably the most sensible person to seat next to him. If someone stabbed him in the chest he'd probably still smile and apologise for getting his blood on their knife. I doubt there's much of anything that your cousin could say that'd provoke him into an argument, especially as he'll be trying his hardest to be on his best behaviour.

"And then you'll have to move the bard opposite them, because Dyl will doubtless worry so much about how he's faring that he'll lose his appetite, otherwise. So, then..." Aly looks up from the paper and offers Francis an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Francis, I think I'm going to have to redraw the whole thing."

He holds his hand out expectantly, and when he curls his fingers around the pen Francis passes to him, Francis belatedly notices that, for the first time, he is wearing his ring in its proper place.

Knowing that he has made Aly uncomfortable with it in the past, Francis has tried to break himself out of the habit of staring, but he discovers he cannot tear his eyes away all the same.

Aly tightens his grip around the pen. Below his knuckles, his skin blanches; above them, it reddens all the way up to his wrist. "Francis," he begins, presumably with the intention of voicing an admonishment, but either his impetus or his will gives out before he can form the next word, and all that escapes his lips is a reedy sigh.

"Apologies, _mon cher_ ," Francis says placatingly. "I was just surprised to see you wearing your ring. I had thought you meant to keep it on its chain at all times."

"Aye, but only because I don't want it to get damaged. I'm not working today so I thought it would be safe to give it a bit of an airing." He ducks his chin and tilts his head until his gaze catches Francis'. "I'm not trying to keep it hidden away. You know that, right?"

Francis wishes he could say yes, but he has contemplated that possibility far too often of late for that particular lie to come either readily or easily. As Aly's anxious expression and strained tone both seem to beg for reassurance, however, he digs deep and manages to gather together sufficient scraps of desire and determination to justify a small nod of his head.

Aly's answering chuckle sounds relieved. "By rights, I should be the one who's surprised," he says. "I didn't think you'd suffer that travesty of woodworking I inflicted on you past the first day."

Francis studies the ring Aly had gifted him with. It's slightly misshapen, made from dull, knotted wood, and he has had to sand the inside edge of it himself several times as it kept giving him splinters, but had clearly been made with... Well, definitely not love or skill, but unquestionably a certain dogged persistence that is oddly heartening.

"I want people to know that I'm courting," he says quietly, and then adds with a wry twist of his lips, "If you'd made me a sign to hang around my neck that said as much, I would have worn it just as gladly."

Alasdair looks baffled for a spell, but ultimately he laughs, taking the words as a joke that Francis isn't entirely sure himself was intended. Then, with a sudden lurch of movement that seems to startle him fully as much as it does Francis, he leans across the two armrests that separate them from each other, and takes hold of Francis' hand.

In the early days of their association, Francis wondered anew with each touch he and Aly shared whether it might be a sign, a portent, a prelude to more, but now he forces all such thoughts aside and schools his mind to a careful blankness. He has promised Aly a year's patience – no more but also no less – so instead of wondering, he waits, secure if not exactly happy in the knowledge that if their situation was entirely hopeless, then Aly would have no qualms in telling him as much.

So complete is this deliberate distraction that Francis barely registers this particular touch at all, though it lingers longer than most. Aly winds their fingers together, and draws their linked hands close enough to his face that Francis can feel the tickle of his breath against his skin, even if he does not allow himself to acknowledge its warmth.

"Well," Aly says at length, "it looks better on your hand than it did in mine, at least."

As compliments go, it's a meagre one that does not merit the heat that rushes to Francis' cheeks, but the quirk of Aly's mouth and the softening of his eyes seem to speak something that he cannot quite put a name to, and he already knows Aly cannot quite explain.

Nevertheless, as signs and portents go, Francis would like to think it a hopeful one, all the same.


End file.
